Come What May
by Kaytee
Summary: A missing scene fic set during "Separation Anxiety." What happens after they hug?


Come What May

Come What May

by Kaytee

Disclaimer: Ain't mine. But good job, hacks, for handing fic writers a golden opportunity to shine. 

Author's Note: This is a "missing scene" fic set during Separation Anxiety. So, um, spoilers I guess. It's also told in the first person. 

Thank you: To my beta baby bijal. I would have given up a long time ago on fic writing if not for you. And my ego. But mostly you. 

Rating: P/Jo PG-13 

Distribution: Ask me. 

Feedback: Yes, please! kaytee@dstream.net 

Part One   
Joey

"Can I come and stay with you tonight? We could just . . . sleep?" 

I know before the words are even out of my mouth that I don't mean what I'm saying. I don't want to spend the night with him; I want to spend forever with him. I don't want to sleep, because there's so much I want to say to him, so much more that I want him to know. 

I don't want to sleep. 

The blue of his eyes darken and I know. I can tell by the way he holds me, by the way he buries his face in the crook of my neck and tugs on the ends of my hair. He heard what I couldn't say. 

"You should, uh . . . " he begins, stepping back and clearing his throat. Holding my hands in his, he continues. "You should probably pack a bag or something, and, uh, tell Bessie where you're going." 

"I'll only be a minute," I tell him, wishing my hands weren't sweating like they had the first time he ever held them. I have no intention of letting Bessie know where I'm going, because the last thing I need is a lecture and the very last thing I want is sympathy. I'll leave that for tomorrow. 

He presses a kiss to my forehead and squeezes my hands before letting them go. "I'll be outside," he says. I watch him leave, shutting the door behind him gently, and I wonder if I'm strong enough to make it through till morning. 

I don't bother changing because I don't want to waste time. Emptying my backpack onto my bed, it doesn't take me long to gather what I need. A change of clothes, a pair of socks, my sneakers. Toothbrush, hairbrush, purse. Standing in the doorway and glancing around my bedroom, I don't find the one thing I really need to take with me. 

The courage to let him go. 

As I listen to Bessie giving Alexander a bath down the hall, I hastily scribble a note telling her that I'll be back in the morning. I'm pinning it to the refrigerator using a plastic alphabet magnet when Bodie opens the back door and seems just as surprised to see me as I am to see him. 

"Hey, Jo," he says after a moment, shutting the door behind him. His eyes take in the clothes visible through my overstuffed backpack, the note in my hand, and he mildly asks, "Where are you off to?" 

After my pregnancy scare, Bessie sat down with me and made it clear that she didn't want me to spend the night with Pacey any longer, that she couldn't condone it when she has firsthand knowledge of the consquences. She made it known that while I live in her house, that I will sleep in my own bed, alone. She's going to get her wish, just not tonight. 

"I'm going to Pacey's," I tell him, looking him directly in the eyes. "I'm staying over." 

He holds my gaze for a moment and then nods, moving past me toward the sink. Turning on the faucet and pouring soap into his hands, he looks out the window toward the creek and says quietly, "I hope you and Jen have fun. You did say you'd be at Jen's, right?" 

I'd hug him but I don't want to be here any longer. "Thank you," I say, but I don't think he heard because I'm already halfway gone. 

He's not on the porch when I get outside, and for a moment I think he might have left. And then I see him, down by the creek with his hands in his pockets and his legs braced apart. As if he's preparing for whatever lies ahead, come what may. His back is straight but his head is bowed and I wonder if I'll aways be able to read him by the way he stands. 

I pull my jacket tighter around me as I walk toward him. He's talking to himself and he doesn't hear me coming until I'm nearly there, turning long enough to see that it's me. "Did you get everything?" 

"Yeah, I'm ready," I say, which isn't really all that truthful. I'll never be ready for this. 

"Are you hungry? You didn't eat much at the party. The food was kind of bad, anyway, so I guess it's a, uh . . . I guess it's a good thing that you didn't," he says, leaning down to pick up a small flat stone. He turns it over and over in his hand as he continues to stammer. "We could pick up a few burgers if you want, get a pizza or something at -" 

He stops when I touch his arm, and looks at me for the first time. His eyes are so confused, so sad, and so beautiful that I can't stand to look any longer. How did we get here, to this awful place where there are no right words and there are no solutions? 

"I'm not hungry," I tell him, dropping my gaze along with my hand. "But thank you anyway." 

We stand there for a few more moments, the silence between us thickening by the moment. With a flick of his wrist, the small stone goes skipping across the water before finally sinking. The sight brings an unexpected smile to my face. 

"Remember that day when I made you teach me how to do that?" I ask him, and he's puzzled for a moment. When he recalls the day I'm talking about, he smiles and for a moment, the pain lessons at the sight. "I was nine, I think, and you were ten. You didn't want to teach me." 

"What would be the point, I said," he nods as he remembers. "Everyone knows that girls can't throw for crap." 

"But you spent the entire afternoon with me, anyway, showing me the best technique." 

Leaning down, he picks up another rock, handing it to me. "By the end of the day, you could skip stones nearly as well as I could." 

"I wonder if I still can," I say, gripping the stone in my hand and bringing my wrist back to toss it. 

"I doubt it, with a grip like that, Potter," he says. "Loosen up a little, don't hold on so tightly." 

"Like this?" I ask, trying to mimic the shape of his hand. 

He moves to stand behind me, his fingers rearranging mine until my grip is deemed right. He's so close I can feel his breath warm on my cheek, his voice soft yet deep in my ear as he says, "Now, bring your wrist back like that . . . yeah. Now just sort of flick your wrist." 

He moves against me just as I'm about to release the stone, his body flush against mine. I miss him so much right then that the longing just crashes over me. The stone falls into the water with a loud plopping sound and I move away from him, unsure of my footing. 

"Hard to believe how much things have changed since then, huh?" he asks, the awkward moment passing. 

I hold his gaze and I wonder which "then" he's referring to. "I still throw like a girl, I guess." 

"You never were quite the tomboy you imagined yourself to be," he says lightly. Picking up my backpack, he slips his arm around my shoulders as we head for his car. 

He opens the door for me, like he did earlier this evening, like he's done every time he's picked me up to go anywhere. A gentleman to the end. He puts my bag in the back seat and starts the engine, fiddling with the radio for a moment until he finds a station playing music sung by people who've already gone through puberty. 

His hands are shaking. 

He notices me notice the trembling of his hands and he clears his throat self-consciously as he puts the car in reverse. 

It doesn't take us long to get to his house. Eight minutes or so without traffic, like tonight. When it's Capeside's equivalent of rush hour, it takes ten to twelve minutes, tops. Two stops signs and one light, watch out for the tailgate-chasing border collie on Maple. 

"I never thought to ask if Gretchen would be here," I comment as we pull into the driveway in front of their beach house. "I don't see her car." 

"She'll be gone all night, partying with her friends" he says, unbuckling his seat belt and reaching into the back seat for my bag. "She's leaving on a, uh, road trip in the morning, and then she's taking some summer classes." 

"I'll miss her," I tell him, and I mean it. Whatever differences there've been between Gretchen and I, she's the only Witter who's shown Pacey true familial love in an otherwise crappy family. For that alone she deserves my respect. 

"It's going to be pretty lonely without having to deal with her bras hanging from the shower curtain rod or listening to her weird music day in and day out. But yeah . . . I'm going to miss her, too," he says as we make our way up the front steps. He searches around in his pocket for his keys and unlocks the sliding door. 

He's itching to be free of his fancy clothes, I know. I can tell by the way he unbuttons his jacket before he even turns on the lamp. He's never been comfortable in clothes worn soley to impress, which is why I'm not surprised when he drops my bag over the back of the couch and says, "I'm, uh, I'm gonna go change. I won't feel like me until I'm covered in camouflage." 

The joke is weak and he knows it, but I make the effort to smile anyway. He heads toward his newly finished bedroom at the back of the house, which isn't much more than a glorified utility closet without the utilities, and I take off my coat. 

Gretchen's been busy, it looks like. Her concert posters are gone from the walls and her cd collection isn't spread hapharzardly across the coffee table. There's an order to the familiar lazy chaos they usually live in, and it's disturbing. It hardly resembles the house I've spend countless hours in. Her things have been packed and there's the distinct scent of disinfectant permeating the air. 

Nothing remains the same, I guess. Not even the comforting smell of his home. 

There's an opened, half-empty carton resting in the armchair and I'm about to move it to sit when something inside the box catches my eye. Resting on top of a pile of clothes is a small, framed photograph, the sight of which causes my heart to pound painfully in my chest. It's a picture of us, of Pacey and I. With trembling fingers, I reach in and bring it closer. I can't see it very clearly, either because of the soft light cast by the lamp or the tears blurring my vision, but I know the moment she captured. 

She took this picture in September, I think, to finish up a roll she was leaving to develop. It was early evening and we'd been sitting out on the front steps, reading a book. I wish I could remember which one, but we've read so many together that I can't begin to think which novel I'm holding. He'd been sitting on the top step and I was sitting between his legs, one step lower and leaning back against him. In the picture, the book is dangling unnoticed from my fingertips because he's about a breath away from kissing me. 

I didn't notice him approach, so lost in the memory, but I know he's there. I can hear him breathe as he looks over my shoulder to the photograph in my hands. I can hear the hitch when he remembers, too. 

His voice is soft, wistful and pained when he finally says, "We were so happy, then." 

"Yeah," I agree, nodding as I carefully put the picture back where I found it. "We were." 

An awkward silences falls over us, just one more after weeks and weeks of them. Moments drag by before I start to say, "Pacey, I'm so -" 

"Jo -" 

"Please just let me say this," I ask gently. 

Taking his silence as acceptance, I take a deep breath before turning to face him. He's changed into an old pair of pajama botttoms and a wife beater, which doesn't do much for my nerves. His eyes are guarded, as if he's waiting for me to say something hurtful. 

"I want to say I'm sorry," I say, holding up a hand to prevent the words of protest that his mouth is already forming "Shhh. I have so many things to apologize for, Pace." 

It's hard to speak around the lump rising in my throat, and I have to clear it several times before continuing. "I'm sorry that I'm a lousy girlfriend. You deserve better than the way I've treated you, from the very beginning. I waffled when the choice should have been clear. I strung you along for months. I made you doubt how much you mean to me, how irreplaceable and important you are." 

The words are sticking in my throat and it hurts to get them out, but I have to make sure he knows. Looking into his eyes, though, it's easier to continue because it's obvious that he's been needing to hear it. 

"I'm sorry for making you wait so long for that night in the ski lodge," I say, tucking my hair behind my ears and taking yet another deep breath. "Instead of telling you my fears and letting you help me work through them, I teased you to the point of frustration and then got angry when you wanted more. Anyone else wouldn't have waited for me as long as you did. Anyone else would have told me where I could go after a few months or so, but not you." 

I'm sorry for not realizing how awful you've been feeling, how awful that I've made you feel," I continue. I have to make myself calm down, because my words are tangling together because I'm rushing to get them said. I want to look away, I want to break his gaze and focus on anything else, because this is hard. This is hard. 

"Here I've been whining and moping and obsessing about which Ivy-league school I'll be accepted to while you've listened and supported me and more or less got me through it single handedly. All while breaking your back doing schoolwork for two grade levels in order to graduate by the skin of your teeth. I've been so wrapped up in me and my own problems that I didn't see how lost you've been. There are so many times I could have helped you work out your feelings, could have made things better just by letting you get them off your chest, and instead I chose to help you with your homework." 

He's about to interrupt again, probably to tell me that he wouldn't be doing as well as he has been without my help. That's bullshit, and I want to make sure he knows that, so again I hold up a hand to keep him from speaking. I can't lose my train of thought and I can't be distracted from this. I'm about to lose my courage, anyway. 

"I'm sorry that I've made such a big deal about your grades. I don't love you for your grades. I don't think less of you for wanting to be just about anywhere but inside a classroom. I got on your case about your schoolwork because I knew you could do better, but I never stepped back and let you do it on your own," I tell him, shaking my head. I have to take a moment to sniffle back the tears before meeting his eyes again. "You have no idea what you're capable of achieving, Pacey. I hope you find out." 

"I'm sorry for making it seem like Capeside is a notch or two better than hell." I didn't realize that I'd been doing that until this week, when I went over everything I could possibly think of that might trigger what happened at Prom. 

"You know as well as I do that this town has what seems like more than its fair share of gossipmongers and spiteful people just waiting for you to fail. But the thing is, you get that wherever you go." 

God knows I've met enough of them through the course of scandal after family scandal. He's been through a scandal or two of his own, so I don't have to drive home the point. 

"What Capeside does have to offer, however, is family," I continue, rushing to explain what I mean before he can interrupt with a disparaging comment about the people he comes from. "I don't mean just your parents or your brothers and sisters, because God knows they hardly know you, but I'm talking about the community. There are people here who would do anything they could to help you out, just because they know you. It's a good place to live, and I'm not as eager to leave it as I've made out." 

Which brings me to one of my deepest regrets, and probably the hardest to explain to him or even myself. I open my mouth to say it, but no sound comes out and I have to drop his gaze. My hands are shaking so badly, so I keep them busy by toying with the ring on my middle finger, the ring he gave me for Christmas. I take a few steps away from him, to the window so that I can look out and see the ocean. But the moon is overshadowed and I can't see through the darkness, so I turn back toward him to continue. 

I take yet another deep breath before trying again, but I really don't think there's enough oxygen in the room. My palms are sweating and I don't know if I can say what I have to. If I don't say it now, though, I won't ever. 

"I'm sorry that I lied to Dawson," I blurt out in a rush that doesn't stop. "I'm sorry that I chickened out and I'm even sorrier that you knew I would. I'm sorry that it took me so long to come clean. And I'm sorry that I took the money from him and I'm sorry that I didn't come to you and work out a solution that didn't involve indebting myself to the one person who has been a thorn in our relationship and I'm sorry that I turned up my nose at the idea of student loans, and I wish to God that I had been strong enough to swallow my pride and sign right up for them and I wish I could go back and say no to him and mean it." I have to stop because the tears are making me practically incoherent, and I have to get this out, I have to let him know. 

It's a struggle to get myself under control, but I have to. This has to be said, and clearly, using sentences and not paragraphs. "I should have listened to the voice inside me saying that it's wrong to accept a gift of that magnitude from someone who hasn't really accepted the choices I've made in my life. I should have said no. And now I can't get myself out of it, because I've already paid." 

My heart pounds painfully in my chest and I have to clear my throat again. 

"More than anything, though, Pacey . . . I'm sorry that I took your heart for granted," I whisper, staring at my feet with eyes so blurred by scalding tears that I can barely see past my hands. 

"And I'm sorry that I've driven you to the point where the thought of touching me is repulsive," I say, my tone embarrassingly plaintive. "Because I really, really need for you to touch me now." 

He's with me in a heartbeat, crossing the distance between us in a few short strides. His hands cradle my face and he kisses my forehead as I wrap my fingers around his wrists, leaning into him. 

"Oh, Jo . . . " he says, his voice cracking slightly as he rests his head against mine. 

"Please?" 

"It won't change things," he says sadly, leaning back so he can look into my eyes. He tilts his head as he wipes away my tears with a sweep of his thumb and I wonder if he realizes there are tears in his eyes, too. "We won't wake up tomorrow with all our problems solved." 

"I know that." Turning my head slightly, I press a kiss against his palm before nuzzling into his touch again. "I just want to be with you tonight." 

[2][1]

   [1]: CWM2.html



End file.
